


The Treatment

by Ovipositivity



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Sex, Consentacles, Egg Laying, Eggpreg, F/M, Impregnation, Other, Oviposition, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Teratophilia, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 09:36:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ovipositivity/pseuds/Ovipositivity
Summary: In a world where First Contact has come and gone, old problems find new solutions.





	1. Winter and Spring

**_Winter_ **

Clara shivered at the feel of cold porcelain on her thighs. The radiator in one corner of the bathroom let out a pathetic hiss, a defeated sound that matched how she felt. The little plastic tab between her fingers felt so small and flimsy. It was unfair that such a tiny, pathetic thing could decide her future.

She looked away for a few moments, steeling herself. Her shivering was not just from the cold. For a moment, it seemed as though she physically couldn’t look at the test strip, as if a powerful magnetism pushed her eyes away every time she tried. 

There was a gentle knock at the door. “Honeybear? You still in there? Are you ok?” Mason’s voice, slightly muffled by the door, sounded worried. Lately he had been treating her like a china doll: something precious and fragile and so easily breakable. He was coming from a place of love, but it was hard not to hear condescension in his voice. He didn’t understand. His body didn’t tell him he’d failed month after month. He didn’t have to sit in this cold room and wait for the strip to tell him his fate.

She took a deep breath and looked at the strip. One line, that was it: a blue minus sign. The plastic casing slipped from her fingers and clattered across the tile floor. Clara’s vision blurred as hot tears filled her eyes. She stood up and clumsily pulled her panties back up, then staggered for the door. As soon as the lock clicked open, Mason pulled the door back and swept her into his arms. She buried her face in his chest, her breath hitching in her throat, and let loose a scream of inchoate anger and despair. 

Mason just held her. He knew better than to say anything. The two of them stood there in silence for a while, while inside Clara’s head, thoughts chased each other around in a tangled circle.  _ How _ ? She had been so  _ sure _ ! Her period was more than a week late, and she was  _ always _ timely. Her sobs ebbed away, and she stood there, shivering in her underwear, and let Mason lead her to bed.

That night, as they lay side by side, Mason broke the silence. “Clara, do you think it’s time we… went to go see Dr. Qwa?” He paused, then continued, in the tone of one who has been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and is trying to explain. “I mean, I know they’re… you know, but Winston from work just got back from Rajez, and he says that their technology in… that area is incredible. Like we’ve never seen. They helped him and Susan, he said.”

“You told them about us.” Clara’s voice was numb, flat, declarative. She was too tired to be angry.

“No! I mean, I said we were trying, but that’s all. I swear, it was totally unprompted. The guy was like an evangelist about it. Said they changed his life.”

Despite her initial reaction, Clara was intrigued. There were more and more Rajezi living in their city, and their doctors were said to be the best. At a minimum, they all passed American Medical Association certification, she told herself, or they wouldn’t be able to practice here. “It’s covered under the NHA,” Mason went on. “No copay, even. Not for a consult.” He fell silent. “I don’t want to pressure you. I just thought it might be a good idea.”

Clara wrapped her arms around Mason’s bicep and laid her head on his shoulder. He was not much taller than her, but stocky where she was slight, and she loved the comforting solidity of his body. Despite the misery of the day she found herself wondering what it would be like to go to a Rajezi doctor. Was it a desperation move? Maybe, but weren’t they desperate now? They had been trying to conceive for more than a year now and had nothing to show for it. Her regular GP had put her on Clomid, and had been reassuring her for months that “these things take time.” Maybe it was time for a second opinion. She was still young, but she could feel the years slipping through her fingers. The term “biological clock” had always offended her, but that was what it felt like: an old fashioned ticking alarm clock, wired to dynamite deep inside her. She laid one hand on her belly and rubbed.  _ Not yet. But soon. Soon… _

Outside, ice crept along the windowpanes and made the sidewalks treacherous. Inside, Clara and Mason sat on plush chairs inside the waiting room of the Blue Triangular Melody clinic. The name seemed utterly random, and the glowing Rajezi runes underneath it on the sign were as incomprehensible as the rest of their language. Inside, the waiting room was lit by muted red fluorescents that flickered gently like flames, but was otherwise utterly prosaic-- the kind of room they’d already spent far too much time in over the past year. The receptionist was human, a pretty young girl with her brown hair bobbed and a spray of freckles across her face. She took their names and handed them a long questionnaire to fill out. Clara puzzled over some of the questions: some were fairly normal (family history, drug use, time since last period) others were disturbingly intimate (pet names for partner, which sexual position she found most pleasurable) and others seemed bizarre or arbitrary (the first pet she had ever owned, a song that always made her cry). She did her best on the list, wondering the whole time if she was making a mistake. For his part, Mason took the strange questions in stride. She occasionally heard a muted giggle as his pencil scratched across the paper. At one point he turned to her. “Honey, what animal do my eyes remind you of?” She glowered at him, and he threw up his hands in exasperation. “Look, it’s on the questionnaire, see? I couldn’t come up with something like that!”

The completed questionnaire felt strangely heavy in Clara’s hands. She handed the clipboard back to the receptionist, but for a moment she could not make her fingers let it go. The girl gave her an annoyed look as she tugged at the clipboard and Clara released it apologetically, her face flushing. She turned and scurried back to Mason. Grabbing his hand in both of hers she squeezed it tightly. She could see him flinch, but he said nothing, only wrapping his other arm around her and pulling her close.

“Uh, Mr. and Mrs. Bolden?” Clara looked up. An orderly was standing at the door with a clipboard. He must have seen something on her face, as his face split into a broad, friendly smile. “Right this way, please.” 

The corridor behind the waiting room was lit by a dim, aqueous glow. It reminded Clara of high school. She had been dating a member of the swim team, and once he had taken her to the pool after dark. The shifting patterns of reflected moonlight on the walls had hypnotized her. The light here was cold and blue and had that same liquid quality. The sounds of the waiting room, just a few steps behind them, seemed curiously muted. Clara looked around in wonder and almost walked into the orderly when he stopped abruptly.

“This is your room, ma’am and sir. Have you met with a Rajezi doctor before?” Clara shook her head, and the orderly’s professional countenance slipped slightly. “They’re not like us. Remember that Dr. Qwa has only your best interests at heart. They aren’t even capable of seeing otherwise. They won’t hurt you.” He paused. “Just… don’t be scared.”    
  
With that cryptic comment, he walked away down the hallway, leaving Clara and Mason alone. Mason looked into his wife’s eyes and gave her fingers an encouraging squeeze. “Ready, honeybear?”   
  
She squeezed back. “Not really. But let’s go.”

They pushed open the door. Inside, the room looked surprisingly normal: an exam chair, a shelf full of glass jars, a computer terminal. Clara squinted at the jars. Those weren’t cotton swabs and tongue depressors… the contents looked vaguely organic and glistened wetly in the blue light. One wall of the office was mirrored glass, and both Clara and Mason looked uncomfortably at it as they sat down. They didn’t have long to wait. The glass wall rippled, as though it were made of cloth, and then seamlessly parted down its center and slid open, revealing Dr. Qwa.

Clara had seen a number of Rajezi since the first wave of settlement two years ago, but this was the closest she had been. Earth had made contact with Rajez nearly a decade before, and once communication had been established, the Rajezi had proved to be both peaceful and eager for cultural exchange. She remembered where she had been during First Contact: the climax of months of negotiation, a diplomatic mission had met off of Saturn’s moon Titan. They had broadcast live as the Rajezi shuttle approached, and Clara had curled up on her couch with a bottle of wine, frightened out of her mind. Half of the newspapers and most of the radio programs were screaming about alien trickery and demanding a military mission. In the end, cooler heads had prevailed, and as the two craft docked and the Rajezi ambassador appeared she had sighed with relief. The aliens were short, just over three feet tall, and resembled terrestrial octopods. Their bodies flashed with color constantly, shifting patterns that blended and swirled. This was their form of communication, but rigs of silvery metal that they wore both enabled them to stand in Earth’s gravity and allowed them to speak.

The Rajezi were fascinated by humanity’s metallurgy and computer networks. Their own technology was largely biological in nature, their cities grown out of coral in the vast, shallow seas of their homeworld. They had proven happy to share their advances in crop science and genomics in exchange for human semiconductors and transistors. At first, only scientific missions were allowed to travel between worlds, but a brisk black market sprang up quickly, and both governments had agreed to allow for trade and free movement under tight regulations. It was not unusual to see Rajezi restaurants or clinics in large human cities, and human architects had adopted the spiraling, asymmetric designs of Rajezi coraldomes. 

Still, it was hard to escape their essentially alien nature. Dr. Qwa’s body was a wide, semi-translucent sac that pulsed steadily, perhaps in time with their heartbeat or breathing. They moved on a frond of tentacles that fluttered around with a thin, rustling whisper. Chrome silver traceries adorned them like the tinsel on a Christmas tree. Color patterns flashed across the sac like rolling waves of ink, cool earth tones that blended into each other before yielding to a soft, furnace orange.

Clara opened her mouth to speak and let out a croak. Her throat was suddenly dry. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Mason startle backwards and begin to stand. Then a voice precipitated out of the air.

++Greetings. I am Dr. Qwa. You are most humbly welcomed to this place of healing.++

The voice was calm and smooth. It was androgynous and seemed to have a slight buzzing echo, like static fizzing behind a radio transmission. There were no obvious microphones or speakers on Dr. Qwa’s exoskeleton, yet the voice issued forth clearly.    
  
++Please be at ease. I understand that my form is disturbing to you. I assure you, I am here to help, and you are free to leave at any time.++

Mason sank down into his chair, wide-eyed. Clara swallowed and took a deep breath before she trusted herself to speak. “I’m sorry, Dr. Qwa. I don’t mean to be rude. This is all so overwhelming for us.”

One of the Rajezi’s tentacles flopped through the air in a gesture of dismissal so curiously human that Clara almost laughed out loud. ++No matter. I assure you, coming here was unusual for me as well. And yet I believe I can help you.++ They crossed the room to where Clara was sitting and elevated themselves on their tentacles until the sac of their head was at eye level. This close, Clara could see it was whorled and knotted with intricate ridges. There were no visible facial features, yet she felt Dr. Qwa’s calm gaze on her all the same.

++You have come to me seeking to bring new life into the world. This is noble. We of the water creche rejoice in life in all its forms. However, you have not quickened. Is this correct?++

Clara nodded. She found herself blinking back sudden tears. It felt like a violation to discuss such an intimate problem with an alien stranger, but Dr. Qwa’s voice was calming her down and soothing her anxieties. Part of her found it odd that a computer-synthesized sound could have such a dramatic effect, but she could hear the kindness behind Dr. Qwa’s words.

++I will not hide the truth from you. Your womb will not take the seed. It is a shallow, briny pool, from which no life will spring.++ Dr. Qwa paused, noticing Clara’s stricken expression. ++Pardon. I meant no insult. I weep for your sorrow. But fortunately, I can help you. I must take blood from you, and seed from your husband, and you must return when the moon has cycled twice. Then we will plant a seed, and water it, and you will quicken and conceive. This I promise you.++ One tentacle extended towards Clara, and she took it as though it were a hand. It was soft and trembled slightly under her touch. She felt its delicate tip caress her fingers, then it was gone, withdrawn into the mass below the doctor’s body. ++Is this agreeable to you?++

Clara looked at Mason for support, but he shrugged. This was her decision, she knew. It had to be. When she thought about it, there was really only one answer. “Yes. I’ll do it.” She gasped as pain flared in her calf. When she looked down, one of Qwa’s tentacles was pressed against her bare skin. As she watched it flushed red briefly, the color swirling and dissipating into the ever-shifting storm. ++I have taken from you what I need. Now your husband.++

Mason stood up and covered his crotch with both hands. “Uh, maybe I can just give you a sample? You don’t have to, uh, touch me, that’s ok, in fact I’d prefer if--”

Dr. Qwa let out a wet burble that Clara realized was a laugh. ++As you please. Perhaps your wife could collect the sample. I find that the better the connection between the couple, the better the outcome. Please deposit it in one of the vials on the counter.++ A tentacle pointed to a row of small glass tubes. Mason looked incredulous. “What, here?!” he asked.    
  
++I will depart for your privacy. You may let yourself out when you are finished.++

Clara slipped off the exam chair. Her head was buzzing, spinning. She saw Mason rising out of his chair again and pushed him down gently. “Mason, love,” she said. “Please don’t be afraid. I want this.” Behind her, the mirrored wall sealed up again behind the Rajezi doctor. She paid no attention at all. “Relax, Mason. It’s all going to be ok. I can tell.” She leaned forward. She could smell the stink of his sweat, his fear. His eyes were wide. She smiled serenely as their lips met.

It was like the first time again. The image filled her mind: Mason, a shy sophomore, at the door to her dorm. They had spent the night at an improv show and laughed until they felt sick. Now, it was just the two of them, and an early-autumn breeze that stirred up the fallen leaves into a vortex. He had hesitated on the step, and she had felt it, a moment as fragile as a soap bubble. She could see the words forming in his throat, the wrong words, awkward words that could not begin to describe how he really felt. So she stopped them up with a kiss.

Then, as now, his lips were rough, chapped. She felt stubble on his chin. Her tongue ran along his teeth, counting each one. She could taste him, the warmth of him, the urgent need to keep her safe. She loved him for it, but his concern was misplaced. He never thought that he would need her to take care of him. She would show him how wrong he was.

Her hand slid between his legs and he offered no resistance as she unzipped his fly. Questing fingers reached into his boxer shorts and cupped his penis. She could feel it waking, uncurling, responding to her touch and the wetness of her kiss. Even now, she marveled at her ability to provoke a reaction in him. Her fingers traced along his shaft as she rubbed the ball of her thumb across his head. He let out a little groan, and she broke the kiss. A single strand of saliva ran between them like a lifeline before breaking and disappearing onto his shirt.

Clara knelt before her husband and looked up at him with adoring eyes. His cock now jutted proudly out from between his thighs. It was an impressive specimen, she’d always thought, though she was sure every wife felt the same way about her husband. Mason looked down on her with wide and nervous eyes. “Clara, should we-” he began, and stiffened as she closed her lips on his member. His precum was salty on her tongue, and she felt his cock twitch as her fingers wrapped around its base. Slowly, so slowly, she circled it with her tongue. Her hand stroked up and down with deliberate, languid ease. She closed her eyes and inhaled as his scent filled her nostrils. He fancied himself strong-- all men did, when they were with their wives-- but here he was, weak as a kitten, his most vulnerable part wholly surrendered to her. She bobbed her head down and swallowed as much of his length as she could, then slowly withdrew it until her lips formed a tight seal around the head. 

One hand stroked Mason’s shaft, the other reached up under his shirt, caressing his stomach and chest. The strapping college boy she had fallen in love with was softening with age, but she delighted in him all the same. She felt his fingers in her hair and said nothing. What he wanted to do was his business. She had her own. Her sweet, silly man, who had tried to spare her his worries and fears during the long months-- she wanted to show him how she felt, how much she loved him still. He must have wondered if the failure of their efforts had soured her on him. If she had blamed him. Their coupling had taken on a frantic urgency recently, devoid of the tenderness of years passed. She missed that tenderness. This was something she could do for him. Something to show him that she still wanted him.

His member filled her mouth. It seemed to have its own heartbeat. When she licked along its length, it pulsed in response. She licked up and down the shaft, then circled the hole in the tip with her tongue, gently teasing it with prods and pokes. Her cheeks drew in as she applied suction, then relaxed as she pulled her mouth off entirely. She glanced up and saw Mason looking down at her with wonder in his eyes.  _ How long has it been since we’ve done this? _ She found that she couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. The skills all came back. His prick glistened with her saliva, and she spat into her hand and rubbed it up and down before taking him into her mouth again and sucking eagerly. He tasted of mingled sweat, spit, precum, and something else, something primal and musky. To Clara, this was the sweetest taste in the world.

She could feel his hips beginning to twitch beneath her, and he let out another low moan. She imagined the feeling of his seed spurting into her mouth, the sudden heat of it, the taste, but forced herself to back off. With a wet  _ pop _ she pulled her head off of his prick and began to stroke it vigorously. Her hands were sticky with a mixture of spit and precum; each stroke came with a lewd squelch. His balls swayed to and fro at the hectic pace of her handjob. Her other hand cupped around his mushroom tip, ready to catch his ejaculation. She didn’t have long to wait. Mason’s cock twitched once, twice, then erupted in a spatter of white goo. His cum shot out with such force that it splashed up; she felt droplets hit her forehead and nose. The majority of it pooled in her palm, but thick streamers and ropes continued to erupt, basting her cheeks and nose. She could feel the cum settling on her face like a mask and giggled aloud as Mason slumped, utterly drained. Clara stood up primly and crossed to the shelf, careful to keep her hand cupped tightly to preserve her precious cargo. She picked up a vial and tipped as much semen in as she could manage, then pulled a half dozen paper towels from a dispenser in the wall to clean up the rest. 

Behind her, Mason was putting his softening cock away. He stood up with a bemused expression on his face. “That was… Clara, I…” She could sense he was about to say something else stupid, so she stood up on tiptoes and kissed him again. “It’s ok. Let’s go home, love.” 

 

**_Spring_ **

Clara fidgeted with the pamphlet. She rolled it into a tube, then unrolled it, flipped through each page and creased down the corners. She knew it was just a displacement activity, something to do so she wouldn’t have to think about the pills on the counter. They sat there innocently, two little white ovoids. She knew that they were just Xanax, and that her doctor had strongly urged her to take them before the appointment. “From what I’ve read of the, uh, procedure,” he’d said, peering over his half-moon spectacles, “it can be somewhat… invasive. Although I’m sure that Doctor, uh, Qwa knows what he’s doing. What it’s doing.” He frowned. “Are you  _ sure _ that you want to go through with this? I know that there are some other more, uh,  _ traditional _ fertility treatments that you haven’t tried…”

Clara shut him down with a polite smile. “We’ve already booked our appointment, Dr. Fellin.” She couldn’t bring herself to be mad at the man-- he had been a good family practitioner for the past decade, and she knew he felt as defeated as she did by her inability to conceive. When she thought about the upcoming “rite of implantation,” as Dr. Qwa put it, she had to admit to some anxiety. But, as Mason had reminded her more than once, they were at the end of their rope. She had scoured the internet, and though the conspiracy hubs were full of ghastly tales (all of which had, conveniently, taken place in far-off countries), she had not found one verified story of anyone dying from a Rajezi procedure-- or even being seriously hurt. 

“Well, in that case, let me write you a script for something that might help.” Dr. Fellin gave her a friendly smile. “I know you don’t much like prescriptions, but this one is pretty mild. It’s to help with any anxiety you might feel. It’ll help you relax.” He held up a hand as she opened her mouth to object. “You don’t have to take it, Ms. Bolden. You don’t even have to fill it. But I want to write it anyways-- in case it turns out you need it.” And so he had, and she had taken it to the CVS downtown, feeling uncomfortably furtive. It wasn’t as though she was doing anything wrong. The bottle went in the medicine cabinet, and if Mason noticed it, he didn’t say anything.

And so it was the day of. She had been warned not to eat anything for 24 hours in advance of the procedure, and her guts were roiled by a nausea that was not  _ just _ nervousness. Every time she felt her resolve weakening, she thought of the room upstairs: pastel green, painted by her and Mason in happier times a year ago. They had argued over the shade, then argued again in the aisle at Home Depot; coming home, they painted in sullen silence for hours before Mason had cracked some stupid joke. She didn’t even remember what it was now, but it had her laughing until tears streamed down her face, and then they had painted together, finishing the whole room in one frenzied afternoon. They had made love afterward, she remembered, right there on the crinkling plastic sheeting, and she had dared to hope that that might be all it took: that life would be quickening inside her already. 

The room was empty now. One day she had come home to find that Mason had moved his woodworking supplies into it. She normally loved his hobby, would sit by his elbow for hours with a book while he whittled a bear or a fish or whatever out of a block of pine, but seeing it in the empty nursery had driven her into a paroxysm of rage and despair so intense that she had not been able to articulate it. “That’s the  _ baby’s _ room!” she had screamed, over and over. “That room is for the  _ baby! _ ” Mason had nodded silently, his face stony, and removed the offending boxes into the hall closet.

The room was empty now, but it wouldn’t be for long. Clara believed. She really did. She unrolled the pamphlet again and read it over one more time.

The Rite of Implantation was a procedure that had been used since time immemorial by the Rajezi themselves. Their genetic science had adapted it to humanity with little difficulty; compared to the Rajezi’s complex, interwoven genome, the human double helix was a simple thing. The Rajezi engineered all manner of specialist creatures to perform tasks in their society; the Rite used one known as a vazhen, a living lump of protoplasm grown using the mother’s DNA. It would take in a sample of genetic material from the father and from it grow a clutch of eggs, each a prospective embryo. It would then implant the eggs directly into her womb, and that was the part that was worrying her. Dr. Qwa had assured her that the pain would be handled, but the thought of some squirming alien tentacle invading her body was disconcerting. Mason would be there to hold her hand at least. All but one of the eggs would fail to implant and would harmlessly dissolve into nutrients that would nurture the survivor. She would then carry that child to term, and he or she would deliver normally after another seven months of gestation. Supposedly children born this way were indistinguishable from those naturally conceived. Right now, she wasn’t worried about stigma. She just wanted her child to have a chance to exist.

“Honeybear, are you ready to go?” Mason called out from downstairs. Clara snatched up the pills and swallowed them with a gulp of water. She grabbed her purse and nearly ran down the stairs. She didn’t even need to grab a hat-- it was still late March, but an unseasonably warm spell had melted off the frost from their front lawn, and crocuses were starting to pop up. Clara forced herself to slow to a walk and breathed deeply. Was the Xanax kicking in? Too soon, right? Mason followed her outside and helped her into the car. “Clara, are you alright?” he asked. “Are you nervous?”    
  
She could have kicked him. The question was well-meant, but he wasn’t the one about to be… well, inseminated by something out of a B-movie. Then again, he was going to watch his wife go through that… so he couldn’t be in the best frame of mind either. 

They drove in silence to the clinic. Clara could feel her anxiety ebbing away. Was it the Xanax, or just surrendering to the inevitable? Now that she was buckled in, she felt like she was on a rollercoaster just reaching its pinnacle; it was too late to turn back now, so she might as well brace herself. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, staring out the window at nothing in particular. Her fingers toyed idly with the buttons of her grey cardigan. The time for second thoughts had come and gone, she knew. What would happen would happen. She just had to hope she was ready for it.

The clinic was as she remembered it. Clara waited patiently in the passenger seat for Mason to come around and unlock it. He offered her his hand with a strange look, and they went inside together. She felt as though her feet were floating on thin air; she was a balloon, a bright pink balloon on the end of a child’s string, and if Mason let go she would blow away in the slightest breeze. The image made her giggle.  _ Was _ this the Xanax? She had never taken it before, and the pills seemed so tiny. Tiny little white eggs, like the eggs that she would-- 

_ That _ thought cut through the haze. She swallowed hard. She had come here to do a job, and she would see it through. Feet firmly planted once more, she followed Mason and an orderly through the waiting room and into the corridor. This time, they walked down a staircase, then along another long tunnel, this one brushed steel. Clara squeezed her husband’s hand a little tighter. The soft, aquatic light above had been soothing, like walking through an art gallery or aquarium. This was something else: harsh, austere, more like a factory or a laboratory. They were underground, which added to her trepidation. Her mind conjured up underground rooms, secret places where experiments were carried out that twisted the laws of nature until they screamed.  Her mouth was dry, and she could feel her heart racing. Her fingernails dug into Mason’s palm as she tried to force herself to breathe. This was her choice. This was her chance. And just like that, the burgeoning panic was gone. 

Their guide led them to a doorway in the wall.  No door was visible, but as they passed through, there was a soft pneumatic hiss and a steel panel slid into place behind them.  Clara had no time to worry about this; there, in front of her, was Dr. Qwa, looking no different than the last time they had seen each other.  One wall of the room was given over to a bank of computers with what looked like fungus growing on them. It sprouted from between the keys of the keyboard, out of the cracks in the plastic casing, and from the input and output ports.  Thin silver wires pierced the violet mass in places and ran in a bundle back into the computer. Other than that, the only furniture in the room was a single folding chair, incongruously sitting alone to one side.

++Welcome, Clara.  Welcome, Mason. How are you today?++

“Nervous, Dr. Qwa,” said Clara.  “What’s all this?”

++Let me put you at ease.  Your vazhen is ready. There were no faults in its growth   We have here interfaced your computers with lirrok, the brain-fungus, to monitor your health during the Rite of Implantation.++  Qwa gestured with one tentacle at the fungus. 

“Where should I sit, Doctor?” Clara asked.  She kept looking around, as if expecting the mysterious vazhen to leap out from any corner.  She told herself she was being foolish. Dr. Qwa was a respected professional, and this was a routine procedure for them.  Qwa must have noticed her anxiety, as they let out another burbling laugh. ++Do not worry. I will call in the vazhen now, and you will know each other.  It is essential for the process. Please remove your garments.++ One tentacle pointed at the chair. ++Your husband may sit there if he wishes.++

“Uh, that’s all right, doc.  I-I think I’d rather stand.” Mason gave a little nervous chuckle.  “So, where is this, uh, vazhen? Will it talk to us?”

In answer, Qwa made a gesture with one tentacle, flicking it against the chrome harness.  A panel in the far wall slid open, looking for all the world like a giant pet door, and the vazhen entered.

It was long and low, the size and approximate shape of a couch, with a fleshy body the color of moss.  It had no visible head or limbs, but moved on a frond of cilia that let it glide smoothly across the floor.  It came with a whispering rustle and a smell-- not a bad smell, not necessarily, but strange. It smelled spicy, like cinnamon, like roasted pumpkin seeds, a dry and tangy smell that was quite at odds with its vegetable appearance.  It trundled out into the middle of the floor and halted, settling down flat. Mason and Clara both watched it with their mouths hanging open. If it noticed, it gave no sign; having stopped moving, it could have been nothing more than an ancient couch someone had thrown away in a bog.

++Please, disrobe,++ Dr. Qwa said again.  ++When you are finished, you may sit atop the vazhen.  You must know it, and it must know you.++

Clara pulled off her cardigan and handed it to Mason, who took it without looking.  He was still staring at the vazhen. She unbuttoned her blouse, then unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it.  She unlaced her boots and pulled them off, then carefully unrolled her pantyhose and shrugged out of her blouse.  Normally, she was shy about taking off her clothes, even in a private exam room, but the strangeness of the situation seemed to moot such a normal concern.  Who would she titillate? She reached back and unhooked her bra, spilling her ample breasts free from their confinement. She had heard that pregnancy would enhance her bust size, and wasn’t looking forward to it; she already had to order custom bras to accommodate her prodigious bust, and those got pricey fast and seemed to last no time at all.  She hooked her fingers through the waist of her black satin panties and rolled them down her thighs, enjoying the sensation of the cool air on her body. Dimly, she was aware of Mason staring at her. He had never been subtle; she enjoyed the attention, though she tried to remain demure. He was her husband, after all. It was alright to show off for him.  

The alluring swell of her hips crested in a plump, heart-shaped ass; as she bent down to remove her panties, her breasts hung down in front of her, pert and perky as they had been when she was in college.  Some of her peers-- those with children of their own-- had complained about what pregnancy had done to their figures, but Clara would gladly trade away firm tits and a callipygean fanny for a baby of her own.

With her clothes in Mason’s arms, she took a couple of hesitant steps towards the vazhen.  It sat there like an ugly piece of furniture. This close, she could see it slowly expanding and contracting like a beating heart.  Gingerly, she reached out one finger to touch it. It was rough and leathery, like a rhinoceros hide, and warm. She stepped carefully over it on her tiptoes and slowly, ever so slowly, lowered herself until she was sitting astride it.

The vazhen reacted at once.  A ripple ran down its length, a muscular flex that nearly knocked Clara off her perch.  She started and began to rise, but stopped when she felt one of Dr. Qwa’s tentacles resting on her forearm.  ++Do not be afraid. The vazhen senses its partner. It wishes to know you.++

Slowly, Clara sat back down and tried to make herself comfortable.  Straddling the vazhen felt odd, so she pulled her legs up onto it. She could feel it flowing underneath her, conforming to her body like a memory foam mattress.  The end behind her humped up into a headrest of sorts, and she gingerly laid back. The creature’s body was soft and firm, like a couch cushion, and dry-- not at all slimy like she had envisioned.  Mason sat down in the folding chair and held out a hand, which Clara took. He gave her a weak smile. “Well, honeybear? How does it feel?”

Clara shifted back and forth, trying to get comfortable.  “I feel like I’m on a therapist’s couch. Nothing unusual so fa-OH!”  Her eyes went wide. Something small and wiggly, like a finger, was caressing her inner thigh.  Mason looked alarmed, but she waved him off as he started to stand. “No, I’m fine. Dr. Qwa, what’s happening?”

++It is knowing you.  While it does, I must affix the monitoring apparatus.  Is this acceptable?” Qwa held out a bundle of electrodes on wire leads.  Each wire disappeared back into the fungal growth. Clara nodded, and held still while the Rajezi began to apply the electrodes.  They terminated in round suction cups smeared with a cool jelly; her skin went slightly numb where they attached. Two electrodes rested on her temples, and one more on her neck.  Five of them made a star-shaped pattern on her tummy, and to her embarrassment, one was placed directly on her pubic mound above her clit. Dr. Qwa checked the connections, then turned to the computer terminals, which now showed steady lines and numbers: pulse, heart rate, blood pressure, oxygenation.     
  
All throughout this process, short tendrils stroked Clara’s body up and down.  They seemed to arise from the vazhen’s back and subsume back into it when they were finished.  They tickled her toes and pinched behind her knees, rubbed her back and buttocks, slid along her arms and ran through her hair.  She squealed in alarm as one of them probed at her sphincter, but to her relief it did not try to slide inside. Others parted her pussy lips as gently as a kiss.  They kneaded on her thighs and slid across her clit, sending a frisson of arousal skittering across her nerves. Goosebumps broke out across her skin and she shivered.

++Are you ready?++ asked Dr. Qwa.  The serene voice calmed Clara down.  She felt as relaxed as if she had been lying in bed on a sleepy Sunday morning.  The way the creature beneath her was contouring to her body was astounding; she felt supported at every inch, yet the pressure was never uncomfortable.  ++The vazhen will begin shortly. Please remain calm. It deliver analgesic to you as it begins the biological interface.++

Clara was about to ask what that term meant when something wrapped around her forehead.  It felt thick and muscular, like an arm, and slightly sticky. Something else flopped onto her waist, and she looked down.  A thick tentacle, dark green and scaly, had wrapped itself around her hips and pulled itself snug. It felt like a thick, warm seat belt.  Two more tentacles rose and curled around her ankles, lifting and separating her legs like the stirrups in a gynecologist’s office. She blushed at being placed in this intimate and compromising position in the presence of a stranger and her husband, but curiously, it was hard to get too upset about any of the strangeness.  She was calm and placid. Was it the Xanax? No time to wonder about that. The tentacles supported her legs, but her arms were free, and she tested the fit of the tentacle around her waist with a gentle tug. It yielded very slightly, then returned to its position. 

Another tentacle, this one thicker than the others, rose up between her legs.  It curved inward towards her like a scorpion’s tail with a bulbous tip. As it approached her, it unfurled like a flower in bloom.  The “petals” were hinged flaps of scaly flesh, each lined with tiny cilia. Inside, she could see a secondary tube growing like the pistil of a flower.  Was it a flower? The cilia looked almost like teeth… the lamprey teeth of some horrible predator, squirming in its loathsome mouth. The tail curved in towards her pussy, and she felt a tiny flutter of alarm.  She squeezed Mason’s hand, and he squeezed back. This was it. They were going through with it. Too late now to back out.

The flower-mouth closed around her quim, and she let out a squeak of surprise.  She could feel the cilia wiggling against her flesh, a strange tickling sensation.  As the individual flaps settled against her skin, she could feel their slightly tacky texture.  They adhered tightly to her and anchored the tube in place. She could feel the inner tube, the pistil, pressing against her slit, but it did not move any further.

Suddenly there was a sharp pain between her legs.  It felt as though the tube had sprouted a pair of fangs and bit into her most sensitive place.  She gasped and bucked against the tentacles, which held her tightly. Dr. Qwa laid one tendril against her arm and spoke quickly.  ++Do not be afraid. I warned you that it would deliver analgesic. It is necessary, to avoid pain during the procedure. It is finished now.  Do you feel better?++

Indeed, she did.  She could feel a warmth spreading throughout her loins, emanating from the lingering pinpricks of pain.  It was not the unpleasant numbness of lidocaine or novocaine, but a gentle sensation of contentment. “I do.  Thank you, doctor. It was unexpected, that’s all. Please continue.” She glanced over at Mason, who looked totally lost.  He saw her looking and raised his eyebrows. “This is your thing, honeybear,” he said. “I trust you. If you say it’s ok, it’s ok.  I’m just here for moral support.”

She could sense some fear in his words, but didn’t want to press him.  It  _ was _ going to be ok.  He’d see. She could tell.

The inner tube began to increase its pressure.  Her furrow did not resist, but parted to allow it entry.  It slid into her slowly and deliberately. It was thin, thinner than Mason’s cock, and it seemed almost prehensile.  Inch after inch of it penetrated her. At first it tickled, but as it moved it kinked and began to run against the roof of her tight tunnel.  The sensation was subtle but powerful; it combined with the lingering warmth to produce a strange kind of arousal, a lazy but inexorable rise within her.  She ran her tongue across her lips and tried to focus.    
  
Deeper and deeper the tentacle burrowed towards her womb.  It grew no thick along its length. When it reached her cervix, it paused, and she felt another pinprick deep inside her-- this one so minor that she barely reacted.  She was in a dreamy haze now. Everything seemed to be happening so slowly, and yet each sensation was fascinating. She felt every inch of the tube inside her. Every time one of its sides brushed against her inner walls she felt a shiver of pleasure.  She closed her eyes and visualized it: the questing tendril plumbing her depths, exploring her, getting to know her more intimately than she even knew herself. She wondered idly if it thought at all, if it even had a brain. What would become of it after this?  It seemed a strange time for such a thought, but her thoughts were moving strangely now.

Dimly, she became aware of a pressure inside her.  The tentacle was pushing against the entrance to her womb.  She wanted to welcome it in, to tell it that it had arrived and to make itself at home.  Her body seemed to be fighting to keep the intruder out, but this was a fight it was destined to lose.  The pressure mounted, and just as it reached the point of discomfort, her body surrendered. She felt the tentacle slither through into her deepest, most intimate parts.

She had never felt anything like that before.  It was piercing her, seemingly to her very heart.  She felt like a butterfly in a specimen box. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.  She had welcomed this invasion. It squirmed inside her, and she felt a tingle of excitement.  Is this what it would feel like when her baby kicked? She felt completely full. Her conscious thoughts were evaporating away as the warmth began to suffuse her every cell.  Her eyes moved beneath closed lids like a sleeper in the throes of a dream.

The tube inside her rippled. She felt it, a wave of motion that traveled along its length.  Something wet and warm spurted out of the tip and coated the walls of her womb. She had time to wonder what was happening before she felt something pressing at her opening.  It felt round and hard, about the size of a tennis ball.  _ The egg! _  She had forgotten all about that part.  It was pressing on her, parting her lips even further.  The tentacle flexed like a giant bicep, and she felt the egg catch the crest of the wave.  It shot past her pussy lips and began to climb up the tunnel to her womb. She could feel every inch of its passage; a hard, round lump inside her body, a strange intruder looking for a new home.  It caught again at her cervix, but the tube flexed and propelled it the last few inches. As it came to a rest against the wall of her uterus, Clara let out a low, trembling moan. The feeling of fullness was greater now, as was the pleasure.  She was being carried on a shallow sea of it, waves of erotic euphoria that lapped against her mind. As the second egg began to burrow into her, she surrendered to the sensation. She had had orgasms before, but this was nothing like with Mason.  This was a primal, wet feeling, an atavistic roar of pleasure that ripped through her nervous system and sent her conscious thoughts scattering. It overwhelmed her, but she felt herself riding it, mastering it. This had been her decision and this was her choice.  She may have been pinned, restrained and impaled on a monstrous ovipositor, but she was in command. 

Inch by inch, she clawed her way back to consciousness.  She could feel an egg marching up her birth canal, and she was not sure what number this was-- had she missed some while captivated?  Looking down, she saw her stomach beginning to bulge outward. The sight of it sent another thrill up her spine. She  _ looked _ pregnant now-- maybe only four or five months along, but she looked how she had always imagined.  Her belly was taut and smooth, her navel inverted. She reached out with one arm and stroked it lovingly.  The reality of her situation crashed in: she was going to have a baby. A  _ baby _ .   _ Her _ baby.  She stared in rapt wonder.

Egg after egg slid up the tube.  She lost count after five, as each new arrival brought successively stronger waves of arousal.  She forgot Mason, forgot Dr. Qwa, forgot where she was and what she was doing; she moaned and squealed, toes curling, tongue lolling out of her open mouth.  She might have been embarrassed had she had the presence of mind to notice what she was doing, but she was gone, lost to the rolling tides of warmth and pleasure.  Finally they dimmed and receded and she swam back to herself. She was panting and covered in a sheen of sweat. Her belly was tremendously swollen-- she looked nine months pregnant, perhaps with twins.  Next to her, Mason was staring with his jaw hanging open. He saw her looking at him and shut it, his cheeks coloring. “Uh, wow,” he stammered. “That, uh, that was pretty intense, honeybear.” 

Clara had no response.  She rubbed her belly and sighed.  She could feel it in there. Life was growing inside her.  She felt the tube inside her begin to withdraw, and her stretched and tired body began to recover.  The warmth was receding, to be replaced by a bruised sensation. Still, she practically glowed with happiness.  She had made it. She had seen it through. The petal-flaps of the vazhen’s ovipositor flaked off her, leaving sticky trails of goop that clung to her skin.  As it pulled free from her quim, there was a wet  _ schlurp _ and a trail of white slime began to pour out of her.  It coated her thighs and pooled beneath her. 

Dr. Qwa bustled over and began to remove the electrodes.  The tentacles wrapped around her forehead and waist seemed to wilt as they receded; the whole vazhen slumped, as if going to sleep.  Mason held out a hand and Clara took it gladly; she felt too drained to stand on her own. Fatigue washed over her as the excitement wore off.  She leaned against her husband, but did not reach for her clothes right away, instead just trying to organize her scattered thoughts.

++The Rite is complete.  Did you experience great discomfort?++ asked Dr. Qwa.  Clara half-turned and gave the Rajezi a weak smile. “Uh, no, doctor.  No discomfort at all. Actually, uh, the opposite of that.”

++I am glad.  Your womb has been seeded.  A week or so from now, one egg will quicken; the rest will gradually be absorbed as nutrients.  Your body will shrink slightly at that time, but not by much. Please monitor your health carefully.  We should see each other in a month to review your progress.++

Mason nodded.  “I’ll make the arrangements.  You just get some rest, honeybear.”  He turned to Qwa. “No side effects, right?  She’ll be ok from here? Everything went smoothly, right?”

Qwa’s tentacles fluttered.  ++The procedure was optimal.  Her health is normal. She will merely be tired for a day or so.++

Clara could feel exhaustion overtaking her, but she struggled to maintain focus.  She could sleep when she got home. “M-mason, we did it. W-we’re going to have a b-b-baby.”  She wrapped both arms around him and buried her head in his chest. She could feel warmth on her cheeks, but her tears were joyful. “We d-d-did it.  Now take me home. I need a n-nap.”

 


	2. Summer and Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delivery nears, and ugly problems rear their heads.

**_Summer_ **

“Honey, look at this.”

Clara sighed. She had grown intimately familiar with that tone over the past few weeks. Mason’s voice was brittle with forced casualness. He had another article to show her. Another just-asking-questions interview with a stern, frowning doctor, wondering aloud what the Rajezi weren’t telling them. Another list of Ten Warning Signs (Go See A Human Doctor Immediately If You Have #8!). 

“Can I read it later?” she asked. She was laying in bed trying to read. Mason lay next to her with his laptop open and propped against his knees. He looked down at her with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Uh, sure, baby. Just asking, but have you noticed black spots on your feet?”

Clara was trying to be patient. She really was. “No, dear,” she began, and that would probably have been it, but she couldn’t resist adding “I haven’t seen my feet in weeks. Maybe you could check them out?” She had meant it as a joke, but Mason folded his laptop closed and laid it on the side table, then swung his legs out of bed. “Ok,” he said. “Hold still.” He rolled over and leaned down. Clara glowered at the back of his head as it disappeared behind the swell of her belly. She laid her folded book down and snapped at him, perhaps more sharply than she had intended, “Get out of there!”

“I’m just looking! I don’t see anything!” Mason’s voice sounded pathetically relieved. Clara wanted to throw something at him, but she didn’t want to lose her place in her book. It was some silly fantasy about a woman who climbed a mountain and married the dragon that lived on top of it, but right now, she’d take a dragon for a husband as long as he didn’t spend all day finding new things to be scared of.

It had started barely a week after they’d gotten home. She’d been ravenously hungry ever since her procedure, which made sense, she supposed-- she was eating for two, now. The thought of eggs for breakfast made her a little queasy, but she found herself craving bacon, sausage, and brisket, and Mason was happy to oblige. She’d been tucking in to a maple sausage patty when she’d become aware of her husband staring at her. At first, she’d thought there was food on her face, and made a show of brushing it off. Mason hadn’t laughed like he normally did. Instead, he’d put on a very serious expression and asked “Honey, why do you want meat so much these days?”

The question had thrown her for a loop. Bacon had always been a guilty pleasure of hers, and she’d put in long hours on a treadmill earning those crispy rashers. She didn’t  _ think _ she’d been eating more of it than normal, and said so. Mason shook his head. “Well, you’re really a carnivore these days. I read on the Internet that that could be a side effect of your… of your procedure. Should we go get it checked out?”

It took a moment for the full import of what he was saying to trickle in, and when it did, she felt betrayed. “What have you been reading, Mason?” she’d asked, struggling to keep her anger under control. “That I’m going to grow tentacles? That I’m going to bit your arm off while you’re asleep?” Mason’s eyes had widened and he’d lifted his hands defensively. “Nothing like that! I’m just, you know, concerned!” 

The source of his concerns turned out to be Rajezitruth.com, the digital equivalent of a supermarket tabloid. Every day there was a new post. “Rajezi Spies Among Us.” “Octopi Stole My Baby!” “Rajezi Mutation Warning Signs.” It was almost comical. Mason had agreed not to visit this site anymore, but it seemed that it was only the tip of the iceberg. She felt his eyes on her every day. “Are you drinking enough?” he’d ask. “Are you fingers falling asleep more often?” “How much sleep are you getting?” 

Clara had had enough. “If I was just craving foot rubs and peanut butter covered tuna like in the funny pages you wouldn’t care!” she’d said. “I’m not a monster, Mason. I’m not an alien. I’m your wife, and I’m pregnant and hormonal and you’re  _ not making things easier _ !”

Mason had apologized, and for a while, he’d calmed down. For a while. But it was starting up again. The questions, the furtive looks. He was as loving and attentive as ever, but she could see something guarded in his eyes, in the way he held her. He was treating her like something wonderful and dangerous, like a beautiful unexploded bomb.

Hence the feet. Hence the casual suggestions, day after day, that they go to get her looked at (just for safety). Hence the laptop. Mason used to lie next to her in bed playing Hearthstone while she read; now, he just read clickbait about Alien Mutant Babies. Clara tried to tell herself that it was new-father jitters, and maybe that was all it was, but it wasn’t helping her mental state at all. 

“Mason, enough.” He was still bent over her feet. He gave one a squeeze, and she kicked out. She hadn’t meant to kick hard, but she caught him right in the forehead; stunned, he flopped out of bed and rolled onto the floor. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, God, Mason, I’m sorry! I swear I didn’t mean to!”

He climbed to his feet with a dazed look. “S’ok, hon. I didn’t see anything. We’re good.”

“No.” As soon as the word was out of her mouth, she knew it was correct. “We are  _ not _ good. Come sit down, dear. We have to talk about this.”

Mason blushed and his mouth turned into a squiggle, the expression he always adopted when he knew he was busted. Clara felt bad for him, but she pressed on. “Mason, you can’t keep doing this. Don’t you think this is hard for me? My feet ache, my head aches, I haven’t taken a shit in three days, I’m tired all the time, and my loving, wonderful, supportive husband has a new theory every day about how I’m going to have a monster baby.” She took a deep breath. “I know you’re scared! I’m scared too! I haven’t done this before! But if I do have a concern, I’m afraid I can’t tell you about it, because you’ll immediately seize on it as proof that I’m about to turn into some kind of mutant cannibal!”

“That’s not--” Mason began, but Clara was rolling now.

“Not what? Not fair? No, it’s not fair. To me. It’s very unfair to me, actually. This was all your idea, Mason. You wanted this baby as much as I did. I know you’re scared, but I need you to be strong for me! I can’t carry you  _ and _ this baby at the same time!”

Mason’s mouth opened and shut. He stared at her. Then, to her utter shock and astonishment, he started to cry. They weren’t silent, manly tears, either, but big shuddering, mucousy sobs that wracked his whole body. He threw his arms around her shoulders. “I’m so-ho-horry!” he moaned. “I’m so b-b-bad! I know!” He sniffled and regained some control of himself. “I just love you so much, babe. It was hard to watch you with that… that thing. And I do want this baby. I want it more than anything else. But I just don’t want to lose you, and if something goes wrong there’s nothing I can do. Nothing! I feel so helpless!”

“Oh, love,” she cooed in his ear. She hugged him around the neck and pulled him close. “There’s something you can do. I promise.” He sniffed again.

“What is it?”   
  
“Be there for me. Support me. Be strong for me. You’re my Stone Mason, right? I need a stone right now.”

Mason smiled. His eyes were red, but there was some of the old spark in them. He flexed his arms like a cartoon bodybuilder. “That’s me, love. Stone Mason. Ok. You’re right. But…” he swallowed hard. “I do think we should go see a doctor. Not because it’s an emergency!” he raised his hands defensively. “But, you know, a normal followup. You’re supposed to have those when you’re pregnant, right? We can go see Dr. Qwa again. Just to make sure everything is fine. And I promise I won’t freak out anymore. Deal?”

Clara nodded. It was a reasonable suggestion. She  _ would _ want a checkup at some point. “Deal,” she said. “Now come here. I need a snuggle.”

The next day she broke out in scales.

She found the first one by accident. She was pinning her hair up in a bun and her finger brushed against something hard on her neck. At first she thought it was a scab, but she couldn’t remember hurting herself. It certainly wasn’t painful. She grabbed a hand mirror, and some awkward positioning around the bathroom sink gave her a glimpse of something smooth and ovoid on the back of her neck. She squinted at it and rubbed it with her fingertip. No doubt about it: it was a scale. She tugged briefly at it, but it was part of her, it seemed. By lunchtime she had found too more, one on her upper thigh and one under her left breast. She let her hair down and when Mason asked her what she wanted for lunch, she smiled and said a sandwich would be fine, thank you, but did you call Dr. Qwa yet? He hadn’t, but promised to right away. 

The next day there were three more: two on her right foot, sitting next to each other, and another one on her hip. She wore socks all day and to bed, too. But the next morning, when she woke up to find three scales hanging on her neck like gems in a brooch, she knew she had to tell Mason.

“You’ve got what?” he asked, incredulous. 

“I think it’s a skin condition,” she said. “You know, like some pregnant women get acne?” The explanation sounded lame even to her own ears. Mason bent down and squinted at her neck. “Honeybear, those are scales. That’s not acne.”

“I know!” she said. “Don’t you think I know?” Despite herself, she could feel panic rising. “When are we going to see Dr. Qwa?!” 

“Uh, next week,” said Mason apologetically. “Should I call them and see if you can come in sooner?”

“Yes!” she practically screamed. “Yes, please!” 

She sat on a chair with her hands cradling her swollen belly, one foot tapping nervously against the tiles, as he dialed. “Yes, this is, uh, Mason Bolden. My wife is Clara Bolden. Yes, she’s a patient. Yes, we have an appointment scheduled for next Thursday. Can we come in sooner?” Pause. “No, it’s not a medical emergency. She’s just, uh, she’s just…” he looked at Clara, who nodded impatiently. “She’s got scales,” he said, in a quiet voice. “Uh huh. Uh huh. We shouldn’t? Ok. Ok, see you then.”

“Well?” Clara didn’t even try to conceal her impatience. “What did they say?” Mason held up his hands. “Tomorrow! We can come in tomorrow. They said it’s not an emergency and not to panic.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “Can you make it one more day?”

“I think so.” Clara held her arms out. “I need a hug, babe. Please.”

His arms enfolded her and she nestled her head in the crook of his shoulder. She breathed deeply.  _ They’re just scales _ , she thought.  _ Like a pimple. They’re not an emergency _ .

She wished she believed herself.

She woke up early the next day. One look in the mirror confirmed her worst fear: four scales on her forehead, tiny things like dark fingernails in a rough diamond pattern. She reached for her foundation and concealer. By the time Mason was up and about half an hour later, she was on the verge of tears. “I can’t make them go away!” she moaned. She had tried brushing her bangs down and layering on concealer. The scales remained stubbornly, treacherous visible. She looked at herself from every angle, and just when she thought she’d covered them up, there they were again.

Mason looked at them with an unreadable expression. Was that fear? Disgust? Or just simple worry? Clara shrank away from him, but he reached out and put steadying hands on her shoulders. Then, to her astonishment, he leaned forward and planted a delicate kiss directly on her scaly forehead. 

“I have an idea,” he said, and turned away. He ran into the bedroom, then returned in triumph with a bandana held over his head. “Here!” he cried, and Clara couldn’t help but laugh at his expression. She bowed her head so that he could tie it, and she had to admit that it worked. She looked like a pirate, but not a scaly one. “Thanks, love,” she said, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. 

The car ride to the clinic was uneventful. Clara sat uncomfortably with the seat pushed all the way back. She didn’t like how the seatbelt rode up on her enormous belly, but no matter how she shifted, she couldn’t find a comfortable position. The one time she had tried to take her belt off, Mason had squawked at her with such alarm that she had rebuckled it immediately.

Outside the clinic the pavement sizzled in the noonday heat. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the lack of shade had driven most pedestrians for the pitiful shelter offered by awnings and overhangs. One man, however, stood on the sidewalk. He was older, with a fringe of wispy white hair that made him look like an eccentric genius from a cartoon. His eyes were wide and watery behind thick coke-bottle glasses. He wore a stained and patched sweater that must have been broiling him alive and faded, threadbare corduroys.  A cardboard box sat on the sidewalk next to him. He perked up when he saw them, and a strange expression crossed his face when he saw where they were headed: a mixture of anger and relief.    
  
“Godless!” he yelled. “Stray not into that den of darkness! Don’t give your precious baby to beasts from beyond!” His voice was creaky and cracked but thrummed with inner fire. “Stay away! They are demons, demons cloaked in pleasing shapes!” He extended one hand. In it was a crumpled tract. Mason goggled at him with eyes like saucers, but Clara could feel herself getting angry. 

“Please, sir, don’t take your lovely wife in there,” the man said. His voice was wheedling now. “Don’t let them rip her baby out! Don’t let them inject her with their poisons! Yea, though you may be tempted…”

“Come on, Clara, just ignore him,” Mason murmured in her ear. He put a protective arm around her shoulder and steered her away from the heckler. Clara tried to shut her ears, but he turned and walked alongside them, keeping pace a few feet away. “Please, young woman, think again! It’s a butcher’s shop in there, where alien monster feed on-” 

“Shut UP!” Clara roared. She pulled away from her startled husband and wheeled on the old man. He held his tract out in front of him like a shield; she ripped it out of his hands and threw it on the ground. “Get out of my FACE!” she yelled. “You make me sick! I only HAVE this baby because of Dr. Qwa, so just take your holy roller bullshit and shove it up your ass!”

The old man gaped at her like a fish. His mouth worked but nothing came out. He sagged and retreated to his cardboard box, leaving Clara panting and sweating on the sidewalk.

“Come on, honeybear, let’s go,” Mason was saying in her ear, but she turned on him. “Were you just going to let him harass me?” she asked, a bit louder than she’d intended. “Come on, Mason! Be useful, please! Just once!” She knew she was being unfair and didn’t care. He had just stood there. All at once, she wanted to cry. She breathed deeply until the feeling passed, then grabbed Mason’s hand and marched the rest of the way into the cool darkness of the clinic.

It was a relief to unwind her bandana. Dr. Qwa peered at her scales, burbled thoughtfully, then, to her surprise, prodded at her with one tentacle. It felt soft and squishy, like the colorful clay she had loved as a child. 

++Have you been sexually active since the Rite?++ Dr. Qwa’s mechanically inflected voice made the question sound as casual as an inquiry about her last meal. Clara found herself stammering. “Well, uh, a little, not very much, that is, we’re not--”

Mason blushed. “We’ve tried it, Doc, but we’ve been busy. Plus, we weren’t sure if it was…”

++It is perfectly safe, I assure you. It may even be healthy. Proper bonding between partners is essential for a nurturing creche environment.++

“Well,” Mason put on a goofy grin, “I guess I’ll be sure to--” 

++When you do, if you note any anomalies, please let me know. Electronic mail will be sufficient.++

“Anomalies?” Clara blinked. “What do you mean exactly?”

Dr. Qwa’s bulbous body rotated until Clara got the distinct impression that they were facing her head on. 

++Your body is experiencing organic changes as you gestate. This is normal and expected. The eggs were formed in a vazhen womb and they will alter your womb to match that state. The scales are a manifestation of this.++

“Altered? How altered? What is being altered?” Mason struggled to keep his voice level. As if sensing his distress, Dr. Qwa raised one tentacle.    
  
++Never fear. The alterations are strictly temporary. They should be wearing off already. In the meantime, you may notice other changes. Parts of your biology may take on new forms. It is of no account. All changes will dissipate by your third trimester, and your delivery will be indistinguishable from that of traditional conception.++

Mason swallowed hard. “Well… ok, if you say so, doc.” Dr. Qwa brandished a clipboard in one tentacle. 

++You may review today’s test results yourself, if you wish. All of Clara’s vital signs and hormone levels are within normal parameters.++ It was impossible to detect a tone in those calm, androgynous syllables, but Clara got the distinct impression of weary resignation.  _ You’re going to panic no matter what I do, _ it seemed to say,  _ so here’s some numbers that prove I’m right. Go ahead and freak out if it makes you feel better-- everything’s ok. _ She had no idea if she was just imagining things, but oddly enough, the thought made her feel better.

Mason took the chart and promised to read it, though from a glance Clara could tell that he wouldn’t have any more idea of what it said than she did. It was written in a mixture of human doctor’s shorthand and Rajezi runes, which decorated the page like a child’s doodles. Just holding it seemed to make him feel better, and if it was a talisman, so be it. They drove home in a considerably lighter mood than they had left, though Clara was careful to tie the bandana back on before leaving the exam room. She thought of the scales, of her carnivorous appetite, and of Dr. Qwa’s words.  _ Alterations _ . Was she becoming something less than fully human? Something more? It would revert, the doctor had said, and she found herself slightly sad about that. 

At home Mason set to work cooking a steak for her. Since the onset of her changes, his spice rack had tripled in size, and his KISS THE COOK’S ASS apron (a gift from her father, who thought that kind of thing was hilarious) was putting in work. Mason had always fancied himself a chef, although his expertise rapidly dried up once he moved beyond the grill set in their stovetop. He knew his limits, and the fact that his wife’s appetite finally matched his ability had cheered him to no end. He hummed as he worked and danced back and forth from foot to foot. From her easy chair in the living room, Clara watched his ass gyrate back and forth and smiled. The smell of crisping meat wasn’t the only thing making her salivate.  _ Proper bonding between partners _ , she thought.  _ Well, we want to give this kid a chance, don’t we? _  A waft of savory scent crossed her nose, and her stomach growled.  _ Dinner first _ .

Mason not only cooked and served dinner, he insisted on cleaning up. Clara appreciated the gesture, but as she watched him scrub, arms flexing, sleeves rolled to his elbows, her impatience grew. “That’s enough, dear,” she said. “Good job. Come to bed?”

“In a bit, honeybear,” he called over his shoulder. “I have to clean the grill-”

“Mason,” she called. “Come. To. Bed.”

He turned and his eyes widened. She was lounging on her side on the recliner, her hair artfully positioned to tumble down her shoulders. She had stripped out of her awkward maternity dress and lay with one arm across the swell of her belly. Her heavy, pink-tipped breasts rested comfortably on her stomach. Her panties were a scant triangle of black lace that strained to contain the bulging, ripe globes of her ass and her thick, curvaceous thighs. She winked at him and his jaw dropped. 

The grill was forgotten. Mason tried to play it cool as he crossed the room, but she could see the tent in his pants from ten feet away. She slid off the recliner and lightly onto her feet as he approached and flitted away towards the staircase. She felt more graceful than she had in weeks. Her stomach seemed like a balloon about to float away, not at all the awkward, heavy thing she had grown used to carrying around. She climbed the stairs and ducked into their bedroom. She shoved throw pillows aside and lay down on the bed just as he appeared in the doorway. He had lost his shirt at some point and frantically unbuttoned his pants as he crossed the few steps to the bed. He sat on its edge and pulled his pants off so forcefully that they were flung across the room inside out. Clara giggled. “Easy there!” she cooed. “We have all night.”

His lips closed around her nipple and she cried out. The hard pink nub was so sensitive, even the lightest brush of his tongue sent electric tingles up her spine. She felt like she was in high school again, fumbling in the back of a parked car, unsure of what to do with her hands. One cupped Mason’s cheek while the other groped blindly at her other nipple, pinching, squeezing, rubbing…

He sucked greedily at her breast while his hands rubbed across the curve of her belly. One slipped downward and traced the outline of her nether lips. His thumb brushed the pearly bead of her clitoris and she gasped. Encouraged, he began to rub in a slow semicircle, taking his time. He rubbed along the length of her labia, pausing to circle at her clit before continuing along her circumference. All the while he lapped at her breast, his tongue tracing along the pebbled surface of her areola and flicking at her nipple.

He played her body like a master musician. His rhythm was steady, building to a climax here before tapering off and returning there, keeping her on edge, bringing her closer and closer to climax while denying her release. She closed her eyes and threw her head back as she gave in to the ecstasy. She was melting, collapsing in his arms. Finally she let herself go entirely and surrendered to the sensation. She cried out his name as she came, unaware of how her eyelids fluttered, how her fists clenched so tightly that her fingernails left little half-moon indents in her palm. She opened her eyes to see Mason’s smiling face inches from her own. He leaned in and their lips met. It was a very long time before either of them wanted to break the kiss.

When they did, Clara gave him a playful push and climbed onto her knees. She leaned forward and planted her hands on the bed, presenting her round ass and looking over her shoulder. “Come on!” she hissed. Her voice was low and breathy. “Hurry!” Mason needed no second urging; he reached out and grabbed her hips with both hands. His fingers sank into the soft, pliant flesh of her butt cheeks, but she ignored them. She reached with difficulty between her legs and found the stiff rod of his cock. Her fingers guided it gently to the warm wetness between her thighs. He slid inside her with a single smooth motion. She felt his prick twitch, and then he was off, thrusting in and out with powerful, muscular surges. Her breasts swayed and bounced as she ground into him. She bucked her hips back and forth to match his rhythm. Each thrust seemed to penetrate to the core of her, unlocking new and strange feelings deep inside.

Wait-- they really were new and strange feelings. She groaned as a ripple of nausea roiled her guts. She didn’t want to interrupt Mason, but she struggled to keep up her rhythm as the sensations built. She gritted her teeth. Mason must have noticed-- he stopped thrusting and leaned over her with a concerned expression on his face. “Honeybear?” he asked.

Clara collapsed forward onto her elbows. Dimly, she was aware of the sudden hollow sensation as Mason’s cock popped from from her dripping quim. The sensations inside her didn’t stop-- instead, they redoubled in intensity. She rolled over onto her butt, with her upper body propped up by a stack of pillows. Her legs lay splayed open. Was this a contraction? How? She thought desperately. How early was she?

“Babe? What’s wrong?” A spasm of fear flashed across Mason’s face. “Is it the baby?”

“Don’t… know…” Clara managed between gritted teeth. “Feels like… something moving…”

There was a sudden sensation of pressure relieved, and she gasped. Her nausea vanished as suddenly as if a switch had been flipped, but in its place she felt a very distinct  _ squirming _ sensation inside her. She looked down between her legs and cried out in horror as something long, thin and pink wriggled free of her pussy.

“Is it the baby?” she said. She couldn’t see-- her swollen orb of a belly was in the way. Mason’s eyes were wide and his mouth hung open in shock. “It’s…” he began, “it’s…”

It was a tentacle. As it writhed its way along the bedspread, there was no mistaking it. It was pink and glistened wetly. It left a slimy trail behind it as it oozed across the bed. To her horror, Clara realized she could  _ feel  _ it. Like her arm, or her leg, she could tell that it was part of herself. As if this realization had woken it up, it stopped questing blindly and reached towards Mason. His eyes bulged but he seemed rooted to the spot. As it moved, the tip of the tentacle bulged and irised open. There was a wet, sucking opening at the end of it, like a toothless mouth fringed with pink, fleshy lips. It closed around the tip of his penis with a wet  _ shlup _ .

It began to pulse and quiver. She could see ripples of muscular motion move along its length. Bit by bit it inched along his shaft, swallowing him deeper. His eyes rolled back into his head. “O-oh my G-god,” he gasped, “that feels… f-f-feels…”

She could feel it too, she realized. It wasn’t the same full sensation as having his member inside her, but it was similar. Moreover, she realized she could  _ taste _ him, the warm and sweaty tang of his cock mixed with the salty note of his precum. She stared in disbelief.

The tentacle was still flexing slowly. She found that by concentrating, she could speed it up or slow it down. As she did, Mason’s eyes focused. He breathed deeply. “Are you… doing this, babe?” he asked. His voice was hoarse. Clara nodded.

“I think so,” she said. “Can you feel it when I do this?”   
  
She tensed and  _ willed _ the tentacle to tighten. Mason stiffened. “OH! Oh yes! Oh, that feels incredible.  _ You’re _ doing this?”

Through trial and error, Clara tested the limits of her control over the tentacle. It could speed up or slow down, oscillate or squeeze, swallow her husband’s cock to the root or tease just the tip. She settled into a steady rhythm of squeeze and release, squeeze and release, milking him along his length. For his part, Mason’s shock had subsided, and he lay there with a goofy smile on his face. Clara listened to his breathing and his tiny, unconscious grunts, bringing him right to the edge of release and denying him. After an age of this, sweat was beading his forehead and his cheeks were ruddy. “P-please,” he mouthed. “Please, let me--”

That was all she needed to hear. She focused and tensed. The tentacle contracted around his prick one final time, its sides quivering, and he groaned in release. His cock twitched like a piston and fired a thick, warm stream of cum. She could feel it inside her. She could even faintly taste it. Her tentacle detached itself from Mason-- in fact, it wilted like a flower and fell away from him. She could feel a tension inside her, a stretched sensation, and then the tentacle began to retract into her. It happened quickly-- one minute, it was lying on the bed like a snake, the next it was disappearing between her pussy lips, and then there was no sign it had been there at all. It had disappeared and taken his seed with it.

They both lay there in shock for a moment, but Mason recovered first. “Is… is that a symptom?” he asked. Clara tried to gather her thoughts. “I guess so,” she said. “I feel…”

“What?” Mason was suddenly leaning over her. His face was a mask of concern. “Are you hurt? Nauseous? Should we see Dr. Qwa? What’s wrong, honeybear?”

Clara shook her head. “I feel… normal. I feel fine.  Seriously.” She sat up straight and cradled her belly with both hands. “I guess we were warned.” Her eyes suddenly widened, and Mason sat down next to her.

“What?” he asked. “What? What is it? Is it a pain?”

“No!” she breathed. “I just felt a kick!” She grabbed his hand and laid it against her stomach. For a moment his expression was blank, then he broke into a wide, startled grin. Then they were both laughing like loons, and her lips found his, and it turned out that they still had some gas in the tank after all.

 

**_Fall_ **

As Clara’s delivery date neared, the side effects became more pronounced. There were no further outbreaks of scales, but her tentacle made numerous repeat appearances, sometimes outside of the bedroom. It seemed to emerge on its own timetable and nothing she did could make it retract before it was ready. Her hair turned darker and exuded in an oily grease that stuck to her hands; before she could consider shaving it off, it all fell out overnight. It dissolved into a sludgy puddle that ruined a pillow. Her fingertips hardened into keratin hooks for a weekend before reverting to normal. She became incredibly sensitive to light and spent her days with the curtains drawn. Mason bought a tub of glow-sticks at a party shop and hung them around the room; their murky glow was about the brightest light she could tolerate. She lay in the dimness sweating and cursing for more than a week before returning to her old self.

Through it all, Mason remained steadfast. He cooked her meals and rubbed her feet. When she couldn’t tolerate light, he read to her, and the ridiculous voices he put on made her laugh until she cried. As the days grew shorter and the leaves turned, the worst of her symptoms abated, leaving her with a fervent desire to do  _ something _ for him. She hated the idea of being a burden. As soon as she was well enough to stand up for extended periods, she banished him from her kitchen. To tell the truth, she hated the idea of being relegated to housework, but it beat doing nothing all day.  _ When my maternity leave is up, _ she told herself,  _ I’ll go back to work. I can do something remote and still spend all day with the baby. _

She found herself imbued with an almost manic energy. Before, they had always split the chores 50/50; now, she found herself too antsy to sit still. She scrubbed every room in the house until they gleamed, cleaned off their desk and computer table, chopped and measured ingredients for a week’s worth of meals, washed every stitch of clothing in the house, and  _ still _ she couldn’t rest. She stalked the house like a tiger, throwing open closet doors and staring angrily inside as if some task would materialize for her to do. The sight of one of Mason’s shirts covered in wrinkles sent her scurrying for her iron and ironing board. She wrenched open his drawer and scooped out a handful of shirts to press and hang.

Something fluttered to the floor. She paused, carefully replaced the shirts, and knelt down. It was a real effort to get to floor level and another to climb back to her feet, but when she did, she squinted down at the piece of folded paper in her hand. It looked familiar, and it took a moment for her to place it. She turned it over to find crude, blocky letters illustrating the front.

**The Alien Menace!**

It was a little tract, the same type the Jehovah’s Witnesses handed out in subway stations. She unfolded it with trembling fingers. Inside was a simple comic: a woman seeing fertility treatment visited a Rajezi clinic. The doctors there implanted a baby in her, to her tearful gratitude. When she returned for a followup they butchered and ate baby and mother, and their tormented spirits looked down in anguish at the next woman to enter “the alien’s lair!”

The tract ended with an exhortation to “beware the alien menace among us.” There was a phone number, to be called “if you see any sinister alien threats in your neighborhood,” and a website. She walked to Mason’s computer, afraid of what she might find. Sure enough, when she typed the first few letters of the URL into the search bar, alienmenace.com autocompleted. She tried to make herself click through, and couldn’t. She felt sick to her stomach.

She spent the rest of the day anxiously awaiting Mason’s return. She had intended to talk to him over dinner, like adults, but he was barely in the door before she threw the balled-up tract at his chest. “Asshole!” she screamed, tears running down her cheeks. “You  _ promised _ , Mason! What’s wrong with you?”

“What-?” he began. His face crinkled into an expression of hurt confusion. “What did I-”

Clara turned and ran. She didn’t want to hit her husband, and she knew that if she stayed there one more second she would. She stumbled back and forth along the hallway. Never had the weight of her stomach felt like such a hindrance; it dragged her down, made her clumsy. She moaned in dismay. The stairs were too much of an obstacle even to contemplate. She made it as far as the living room and collapsed, weeping, on the recliner. Mason hung back by a few feet. Looking at him, she had felt such a wave of betrayal and anger just rise up inside her. She had surprised herself. Now it had drained away, and what was left was hurt.

“How  _ could _ you, Mason?” she sobbed. “Is that what you think of me? The alien menace? Is that our  _ baby _ ?”

Mason looked stricken. “No!” he cried. “No, honeybear, I swear, that’s not-”

“Don’t call me that!” The pet name sounded mocking to her ears. “Don’t! I’m a mutant freak, aren’t I? I’m not your wife! Your wife doesn’t have  _ tentacles! _ ”

“No, no, no!” Mason’s voice was soothing, gentle. To Clara it sounded patronizing. “You’re not! You’re still my wife! You’re not a freak!”

“I know that.” Clara sniffed and wiped her eyes before turning to face him. “I know that. Do you? I know I’m not a monster, Mason. If you don’t think so, why would you bring that… that  _ trash _ into my house?”

Mason gaped at her. His mouth hung open. Finally, he managed, “That was… that was a long time ago!”   
  
“Really?” she asked. “How long? Years? Months? Because if I’m right, and that was the paper that lunatic outside the clinic tried to give us, that was just a few weeks ago. What changed between then and now?”

Mason threw up his arms in surrender. “Ok, weeks. But Clara, I was scared! You know that! I was scared, and I was weak, I admit it! I picked it up. I shouldn’t have done that. But I know you’re not a monster. You’re my wife! And that’s my child you’re carrying!”

“Oh? When did you decide that?” Clara snapped. “When a tentacle crawled out of me and sucked your dick?”

Mason blushed and looked away. “Clara, please--”

She tried to hold onto her anger, but it was draining away, replaced by a bone-deep fatigue. “Mason, just… leave me alone for now. If I’m still your wife, if you still love me, if you don’t think I’m a freak, just give me some space, ok?”

Mason nodded. “You’re right. You’re right. Oh God, I really fucked up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” He backed away from her with his hands held in front of him. She watched him go and dried her eyes. Presently, the front door opened and closed and she heard the car revving up. She sat in the kitchen and cried silent tears into her cooling dinner.

Mason didn’t back until late. Even his key turning in the lock sounded furtive. She sat up in bed with her book on her lap and waited, listening to him clump around downstairs. When he finally arrived in the doorway, he froze in her glare.

“Mason…” she began.

“I’m sorry, hon- Clara.” He cleared his throat. “Really, I am. I should have trusted you. I shouldn’t have hidden anything from you.” He came over and sat down on the bed. “Clara, it’s scary for me, you know? I wanted this kid. I wanted it more than anything. When I found out about the… the procedure, I didn’t think twice. But I guess… seeing it was something else. And seeing you suffer, it hurts me.” He swallowed. “But I’m supposed to support you. I’m supposed to protect you. I let you down, and I’m sorry.”

Clara held her arms open. “I understand, love. I know you want to be strong. You’re still my Stone Mason. Don’t hide your fears from me. It makes me think I’m what you’re afraid of.”

Mason leaned over and hugged her, but gingerly, as though he was still afraid she would break or explode. She wrenched her body sideways and, surprised, he was pulled off balance. She wrestled him down into bed and planted a kiss on his forehead.    
  
“Love you, dear.”   
  
“I love you too, honeybear.”

A week later, her water broke.

“What is it? What’s happening?”  Clara was lying down in the passenger seat, which had been cranked back as far as it would go, so when Mason abruptly slammed on the brakes with a curse she had no idea why. Nor was sitting up an option; any motion of her hips sent lightning bolts of pain jagging through her body. She hissed as another contraction tore through her. It was like the worst period cramp of her life, times a thousand; she swore she could  _ see _ her guts twisting beneath her skin. 

“ _ Shit, _ ” hissed Mason under his breath. To Clara, he added: “Construction. Looks like there’s a detour.”

“FUCK!” She panted and sweated, all of the Lamaze Youtube videos forgotten.  Her breath rattled in her throat. The sun was too bright for autumn, she thought bitterly, and the car was too hot. She shaded her eyes with one hand and tried to calm herself. The seatbelt bit into her as Mason accelerated up a hill. “Mason, this kid’s not gonna wait!”

Mason cursed again under his breath. “Looks like roadwork. Fuck, is every road to the hospital closed? Jesus, I’m gonna have to take the interstate. At this time of day? It’s gonna be--”

Clara wheezed. She was seeing spots. “Clinic…” she managed. She took a deep breath. “Dr. Qwa.”

Mason looked down at her in astonishment. “Are you sure? The hospital has our room all set…”

She growled, an animal noise deep in her throat. “NOW, Mason! No time!”

He shrugged and spun the wheel, provoking a storm of angry honks from nearby drivers. Their car careened around the intersection and down a side street, and then they were away and accelerating. Five minutes and three more turns and Mason screeched to a halt in the clinic parking lot. He nearly strangled himself with his seatbelt before he made it out of the car, then dashed around to the passenger’s side and lifted Clara to her feet. She leaned heavily against him with one arm around his shoulders and the other cradling her enormous stomach. By way of a knock-kneed stagger she made slow progress up the sidewalk and towards the clinic door.

Gradually, she became aware of a loud noise in the background. She looked up in astonishment to see a ring of angry people surrounding the clinic. It took a second for what she was seeing to sink in. They carried signs with slogans like ALIENS OUT and TENTACLES OFF OUR BABIES. A couple of elderly women were passing out tracts very similar to the one she had seen in Mason’s drawer. They were all chanting: “No More Mutant Babies!” and “Butchers Must Go!” were popular refrains, but one old man with a reedy voice was practically shrieking “God Hates Alien Freaks!” at the top of his lungs. With the arrival of Mason and Clara, the crowd had a new focus. Two dozen pairs of eyes swiveled towards them and two dozen pairs of lungs inflated, preparing to lambaste the newcomers.

“Sir!” an earnest-looking young man in a checkered brown sweater vest started towards them. “Sir, why are you taking your wife into this den of iniquity?”   
  
Mason turned and growled at him. “Because she’s going to have a baby, you dipshit.”

“Please, sir!” The man pitched his voice was a carnival barker. “Please, that baby is innocent! Do not feed it to these invaders from the stars! Give that baby a chance at a life!”

“They’re not gonna… urgh, they’re not gonna eat it!” moaned Clara. “Mason, hurry!”

The young man kept pace with them as they walked. “Sir, they do the most vile things in there. Inhuman things. It would turn your stomach if I told you. I beg you, do not subject your wife to that madness.”

Mason responded without looking. “Too late for that, sonny. Out of my way.”

The young man drew back with a look of horror on his face. “You’re saying… that’s a  _ hybrid _ baby? A mutant?” His lip curled in disgust. “Unclean! Unclean! Abomination!”

Clara could barely think straight. Her head reeled. The contractions were coming faster now, and on top of everything else, this hateful goblin was insulting her baby. She racked her brains for a retort, but none came. As she thought, Mason stepped up with a grim expression she had never seen on his face before. The young man was half-turned to the crowd, drawing in breath for what would no doubt be a series of insults as colorful as they were hateful, when Mason’s fist caught him on the underside of the jaw. His expression had time to change from righteous vengeance to stunned anger before the fist slammed his head around and lifted him off the pavement. He did a little half-turn in midair and collapsed in a pile by the side of the path.

  
Ignoring the stunned stares of the other protestors, Mason put his arm around Clara. “Hurry, honeybear,” he said. “Let’s get you inside.”

  
“M-mason,” she breathed. “You  _ hit _ him.”

“Nobody talks about my wife that way.” He thought for a moment. “Nobody talks about my kid that way, either. Come on, before the rest of them get ideas.”

They labored up the pathway. Jeering faces loomed out of the crowd, chanting and shouting. Clara struggled to put one foot in front of another. A bottle hit the ground by her foot and shattered. She felt pieces of glass bounce off her shoe.

The doors to the clinic burst open and two orderlies ran out, both large men in scrubs. They ran to interpose themselves between Mason and Clara and the crowd. One looped Clara’s free arm around his shoulder, and he and Mason hustled her inside.

She collapsed gratefully into a waiting room chair. Mason ran to the front desk and slammed his hand down, palm open. “My wife’s having a baby!” he shouted. “Now!”

The rest was a blur. Clara felt strong hands helping her into a wheelchair. She groped blindly until Mason’s hand closed around hers, then squeezed with all her might. She could feel herself being moved, lifted, laid down… bright lights overhead made her squint.

++Clara. Can you hear me? Your child is coming. You must push.++

“Dr. Qwa?” she asked dreamily.

  
“Come on, honeybear, push!” Mason leaned over her. “Just like we practiced!”

That cut through the mental fog. She took a deep breath and pushed alongside a long exhale that turned into a scream. She could feel the life inside her struggling, fighting to be born. She pushed with all her might.

“I can see the head!” said Mason, and then he was crying, and she was crying too. She forgot everything else: the protestors, the tract, her worries, her fears. She pushed and pushed until she thought her heart would give out. And finally, finally, she heard a thin, reedy wail, and felt a warm bundle pushed into her arms. She opened her eyes and saw eyes staring back at her: tiny, deep blue, full of shock and amazement. Then they closed and the baby let out an earsplitting cry. Clara was too exhausted to do anything but smile.

Later, Mason sat in a folding chair in the delivery room. His shirt was soaked with sweat and sticking to him and his knuckles were bloody and bruised, but there would be time for all of that later. He looked down at his sleeping wife and the tiny pink form in her arms. Dr. Qwa had lingered in the room, and now rested a single tentacle on Mason’s knee.

++Congratulations, Mr. Bolden. A successful delivery. Your wife was very brave.++

“Yeah.” Mason looked down at his fist, then down at Clara. He thought about his fear, and hers. “She was.”

 


End file.
